Silence
by Jaden Anderson
Summary: Hawke is kidnapped along with the other women of Kirkwall that have gone missing. Unarmed and unprotected, Hawke must struggle to stay alive until rescued - all while under the thrall of blood magic. a dark AU retelling of All That Remains.
1. Part 1

A/N: I _know_. I have a problem haha. But again, another idea that popped into my head and just wouldn't leave me alone!

Title: Silence

Characters: Hawke and Anders

Summary: Hawke is kidnapped along with the other women of Kirkwall that have gone missing. Unarmed and unprotected, Hawke must struggle to stay alive until rescued. But will her mother?

A/N: Eek! These stories just keep coming to me! Another three parter me thinks, but we'll see how it goes! Enjoy and I hope you like it!

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**Part 1**

-Hawke-

The estate is far too silent.

Outside a storm rages, erratic flickers of lightning the only source of light as it bursts brightly within the foyer. Soaked through and through from her day of wandering the Wounded Coast in this dreaded weather, Hawke takes the time to remove her dripping garments at the door. Her overtunic, she drapes over the bench, silently reminding herself to ask Bodahn to launder it for her. Her jerkin is next, only for the purpose of drying her undershirt. And for that, she'll light a fire. She slips off her belt, hanging it off the wall, next to her bow. Her mother loathes when she leaves her gear lying about like this but seeing as she apparently isn't home, Hawke isn't concerned.

She drags a hand through her mussed hair, flicking out the excess water, and crosses from the foyer over into her study. The moment she steps within, she's met with a piquant scent and her gaze shifts to find an elegant flourish of flowers perched atop her desk, surrounded by an array of papers; some her own, some Anders'. But there doesn't appear to be anyone else here. Her heart leaps into her throat and she crosses the room, her fingers caressing the soft petals. Roses in an assortment of colors. The tips of her lips curl upwards and she stoops over to inhale the gentle perfumes. A stark white card rests among the buds and she fetches it, her stomach warming at a single word...

_Tonight._

Hawke plucks the longest stem from the display, lifting it to her nose. She never thought Anders could be so sentimental. Not a week ago, they'd shared in a heart-stopping kiss that had shattered everything Hawke thought she knew. There's always been tension between her and Anders, due to their attraction to one another, but he hadn't been willing to do anything about it. Even after the kiss, he'd distanced himself from her, telling her he'd only hurt her. She'd left, believing it time to move on from the man that stole her breath.

But the flowers... she smiles ardently, reaching for the entire bouquet. Unsure of all that's expected for the night, she at the very least wants them in her room, by the bed, to show him her appreciation of such a sentiment. He must have taken something to heart that she'd said and the icy hand she's felt clutched around her own for this entire week so far loosens.

She turns, her fingers lightly pressing against the wall to balance herself when a sudden wave of dizziness sweeps over her. She blinks and forces herself to swallow past the burning lump forming in her throat. There's a haze forming, clouding her thoughts and sight. And beneath it all is this faint buzzing, an incessant chattering that drowns everything out. She shakes her head, trying to throw it clean, when her knees buckle and she drops, driving them into the hard marble floor. She hardly notices that she continues to fall until an ache spreads over the length of her cheek. Her lids droop heavily, her last sight that of the stem she clutches in her hand and her blood trickling down her arm.

-.-

Hawke awakes to a scream.

Nothing is familiar. Damp air, the scent of rotted wood and other... excrements, and a brackish, toxic scent that burns her lungs. Panic rises from the depth of her stomach until her throat clamps down around it. And still beneath all is a faint chatter, an incessant buzzing that somehow feels familiar. It's there, throbbing with her pulse, at an alarming rate that she finds it hard to breathe with.

The humidity adds to the difficulty she seems to have breathing, as though the air is thick and heavy, flooding her lungs. Even her skin is slick with it and she glances down to find that she at least is still in the clothing she last had on. Her hair lays matted against her brow, curling from the vapors. She shifts, desiring only to brush the damp locks away from her eyes, and that's when she realizes she's chained to smaller thick loops attached to a pike driven into the ground.

The light is dim and comes from a single torch just outside the door, but enough that she can see she is locked in some cell; the bars tarnished with age. But it's the manacles sealed around her wrists that she inspects; heavy and even thicker than the loops. The chain runs the length of her body until it sweeps around her feet, tying her ankles together. There's not enough length to do anything beyond shift against the floor and even as she does that, the sharp edges of the manacle bite into her wrists, splitting the flesh.

She bows over, her head meeting her open palms. She can't... _remember_ what came before this. The last image she recalls is trekking through the Wounded Coast with... Fenris and Varric. They'd been... searching for someone or something or... she straightens and tips her head back against the damp wall, a frustrated sound crawling out of her throat. _Think! Think!_

The image of Anders comes to mind and she recalls a blissful feeling, something warm in the pit of her stomach that certainly isn't present now. No, now, it's dread that lines it and something so much blacker: terror.

She presses the heel of her palms into her eyes, rubbing ferociously as though it'll help clear the fog hazing her thoughts. The steel presses into her cheekbones but she cares little - if anything, the discomfort helps to balance her. But with a sigh, nothing returns to her. There's no sudden moment of clarity, no stream of light pouring over her as she recalls exactly what it was she was doing before all this. The fog remains, like a thick cloud. Her fingers curl into her hair in tight fists and she pulls. Why is this so difficult? And _what_ is happening?

It isn't until a pained noise scampers out of her lips that she drops her hands, the manacles jangling in her lap. She _must_ be calm. Panicking won't help, though it's certainly easier said than done. Waking alone, in a cell, chained down to the floor does not help give one a sense of peace.

Up to this point, she's forgotten it was a scream that woke her. So when it comes again, stark and ear-piercing, she sucks in a startled breath, struggling in vain to tamp down the sudden surge of fear she tastes at the back of her tongue. Never has she felt such a thing before. Not when Carver was stolen from them by the darkspawn, not when Bethany was taken by the circle, not even when battling their way through the Deep Roads. She'd been scared, yes, but there hadn't been this coating of bile that came with it. She'd had her companions or family with her then. But being alone changes everything. And where had that scream come from? Certainly close by, too close for her own liking.

How long will it take for her companions to even realize she is gone? Will they even think her missing? Or simply off somewhere with another of her companions?

Footsteps in the distance - something Hawke does _not_ want to hear. Alone, no one can harm her. Her chin jerks toward the sound, her heart leaping and refusing to slow. The pace is even but heavy as they close the distance between them. She never sees them, only an arm as it extends into her line of sight. There's nothing familiar at all, simply a long limb covered in a soft brown material. Absolutely nothing is said; Hawke's lips clamp down for fear that they might hear she is awake. The hand slowly lowers a cover over the torch and the fire flickers twice before snuffing out entirely.

She sucks in another breath, this one shudders, and she draws as close to the wall as she can. Why put out the torch? What is it they don't want her to see? She's cast into nothingness - a stark darkness that spurns the bitter swell of fear once more, and she bites down on her lip to smother the impending cry. She waits for the inexplicable jingle of keys needed to open her cell, or the heavy pound of the steps as they cross toward her door. But neither happens. Instead those footsteps begin to retreat, echoing off the walls as the person withdraws.

Hawke slumps into the corner and tucks her arms into her stomach, hoping to slow their shaking and drops her head down onto her knees. Unable to see an inch beyond her own face, she lets her eyes close once more; not that it makes a difference if they are open or not.

-.-

The light never returns.

She's left alone for longer than she can even wager a guess. Hours, days, she doesn't know. Without any method of measuring time, she's left to float in this abyss of nothing, waiting - _waiting_ - for the moment the person that belonged to that arm decides to return for her.

The only sounds beyond that of her forcibly tempered breathing are the screams. Always they startle her, even though with every passing moment, she expects it. Yet, with each and every one, her pulse spikes, her palms dampen, and her breath shudders. Is that to be her? Will her screams eventually fall on another woman's ears? The thought is more than she can bear and tears finally prick at her eyes. Brushing them away seems pointless; there's no one here to see her cry. So she lets them fall, the salt staining her lips.

The only thought that keeps her moderately sane is that at any moment her companions will come swooping in and rescue her, before those screams touch her own lips. _Any moment_. But it doesn't matter how often she says those words, her lips moving in an impassioned prayer, it never happens. There's no sudden rushing of feet, no swords being drawn from a scabbard, no one shouting her name. There's simply nothing - until the next round of screams rises.

Sleep remains elusive. Whenever she feels herself begin to drop off, her eyes snap back open, even though she still sees nothing beyond the hand in front of her face. She cannot sleep. She cannot allow them to take her unawares. Because when they come, she will fight with every bit of strength she has left. Not that there is much. With no sustenance provided, her body is weakening.

With every shuffle, she winces, the steel manacles rubbing raw at the flesh they rest against. The burn is unlike anything she's ever felt and it takes every bit of concentration to ensure that she doesn't touch the wounds.

_Anders_.

She thinks of him to help retain her sanity. Surely, _surely_, he must know she is missing by now. And she knows that he and the others will do everything in their power to find her. A bright light amongst the dreary darkness is that her mother will know she is missing. And she will go to them. _Soon_.

_Anders_.

-.-

She doesn't know what day it is, or how long she's been trapped there, when the footsteps return. She pushes harder into the corner, her back conforming to the rotted wood. Her fingers, like claws, curl inward, shaking from the wounds marring her wrists. Her entire body seems to respond to the dreaded footsteps in its own fashion. Her stomach quivers, her arms tremble, her chest aches, her head pounds. And when the torch suddenly flares to life, she throws her hands up, shielding her from flare of light. Through slitted eyes, she stares in horror at her wrists, absolutely slick with blood. The skin is discolored, an almost green tinge to it. Could that be the cause of her jittering fingers? For a brief moment, she wonders if she'll ever be able to string a bow again, watching as her typically steady hands shudder about.

That arm hovers against her cell, she sees it from the edge of her hazed vision. She lowers her own arms, blinking furiously to sharpen her vision. The man that hovers against the cell is familiar... a dream of a dream almost. She remembers _something_, but her mind won't place the face. Long hair with the typical braids pulling it back from his sharp cheekbones. It's his lips that spark the memory, only because she remembers thinking how thin they were. When they curl back into this malevolent smile, his name falls from her own chapped ones in a hoarse voice.

"Gascard," she mutters, her tongue flicking out with the hope of dampening them so she can speak a little clearer.

"Did you like my flowers?" he asks, slanting against the cell as though it's nothing more than a wall between them. His accent is thicker than she recalls but that means little down here.

Her brows draw down slightly with concern. _Flowers?_ But then it all comes back in a rush of memories that drags a haggard gasp from her lips. The roses, in her study. She'd reached for one and fallen. She'd thought they were from Anders. Her lower lip trembles and for the first time ever, she doesn't care that someone might see. The time for modesty has long since passed.

"But... lilies," her voice is so broken.

"Not for you, my beautiful rose," he tells her. "You do not compare to those women. For them, lilies. But for you, roses. Would you like out, _ma fleur?_"

_No_, not if it means being taken somewhere. A strangled whimper falls from her cracked lips - a result of days without water

"Tch," he murmurs gently. "Come, we have a gift for you."

Her ears perk at '_we_'. There's someone else down here and working with him? She struggles to remember everything they had learned about the man abducting women. They had followed him to the Foundry in Lowtown where they'd found human remains. Gascard had been the prime suspect of the templar, Emeric. But Hawke had believed his story when confronting him, that he was searching for the killer just as she was. How wrong she had been.

"Come, _ma fleur. _You will wish to see this."

The jangle of the keys sparks a chord of fear and she pushes back into the corner. Gascard hardly notices. He simply enters her cell and grabs at her chains, somehow extracting them from the spike on the floor. His light gaze falls on her, clearly waiting for her to do something. A few moments pass until he tugs on the chain, yanking her to her feet.

Her joints scream in protest; the first time being allowed to stand since arriving here and she cries out from it, stumbling into his chest when her knees buckle.

"Ssh," he whispers to her, his chilled finger drawing a line down her cheek. "I will carry you, yes?"

A spark of who she is returns and she jerks away from him, forcing her legs to straighten, though they tremble horridly. She straightens and looks him in the eye, realizing at the last moment that was likely the worst thing she could have done. His face darkens, those thin lips pressing into a grim line. Had she seen this side of the man when they came across him in his estate, she might not have believed his story so willingly. Isabela and Aveline had both scolded her upon leaving the house.

She doesn't see it coming, her vision still hazed, but she _feels_ it when his fist suddenly slams into her jaw. Hawke staggers away, her back striking the wall. Stars dance behind her eyes and her knees - which couldn't hold her up before - buckle. Pain pulses through her head and she gives in to it, sliding meekly to the ground. Hands grip at her and wrench her back up, placing her solidly on her feet before a second strike lands across her other cheek. This time she cries out and tumbles quickly to the ground. His feet are all she can see in her line of sight and she's sure to spit the mouthful of blood rising to the surface as close to them as she can.

Whatever gentleness he'd shown her before vanishes and his hand fists into her knotted hair, yanking her back to her feet and shoving her bodily toward the door. She crashes into the bars, her long fingers wrapping around them for support.

It's difficult to move with her wrists and feet still shackled and she finds herself tangled in them when she attempts to turn to him. But his hands are there once more, shoving her through the opening. With one hand on her chains and the other grabbing for the torch on the wall, he leads her down the hall, yanking her next to him as though she is a dog.

Cells upon cells they pass; she's only grateful most are empty. But there are three she sees lumps stretched out within. And from the stark white faces, she knows they are gone from this world. She places the names to the faces - women she's been searching for; Ninette, Alessa, and Mharen. Too late to save them, too late to save herself. Had those screams come from these women? And what had they done to them? She means to ask, but from the clenched jaw she sees from the corner of her eye, she deems silence to be best.

He shoves her through another door and it's here that she sees another man perched within the room, hovering over a fourth woman. Hawke sucks in a breath. She hadn't even known a fourth woman was missing. Five, now, it seems, if she counts herself.

A sudden rush of adrenaline fuels her withering joints and she stalks forward from Gascard, though he yanks her back by her chains when he deems she's gone too far.

"Ah, this must be the ravishing Hawke. I have heard much about you, my dear," a voice rises from the man though he still hasn't looked up. An older man, with graying hair, Hawke takes note of the withering lines etched into his face. Not long for this world himself, it seems.

Finally, his head rises and at the sight of her, his eyes widen. "Oh, Gascard, you were right about this one."

Something heavy strikes the back of her legs and she drops, her hands unable to stop her from crashing into the ground.

"Now, now, Gascard," the man mutters. "We do still need her; try not to break her too much."

Hawke's blood runs cold. She slowly picks herself back up, dropping back onto her haunches to stare up at the two men. Her chest tightens at the look on their faces; hungry almost. Clearly something has gone wrong with these men a long time ago.

"I am not finished with this one's mother yet, perhaps you should return her to her cell until we are ready."

Hawke stills, though her heart spikes with his words. _Her mother?_ She must have heard him wrong, delusional from the lack of sleep, food, and water. But those eyes, both of them stare down at her with a malicious intent.

"Mother?" she slurs through swelling lips.

"You did not know?" the man laughs.

"Quentin, we did not bring her here for your purposes. This one is mine, remember?"

The one called Quentin waves his hand. "Yes, yes. Show her what you meant to show her and then return her."

She's yanked by her chains once more and practically dragged around to the front of the room where a chair rests. Hawke doesn't _want_ to see, she can barely maintain her fear as it is.

Rough hands land against the arch of her back, spilling her once more to the ground. Hawke sucks in a breath, and then another. All around her is blood, in strange smears as though someone died here and was dragged away. And in the middle of the puddle rest two feet. She can't look up, can't, can't, _won't!_

Fingers slide under her chin and snap her head up painfully, the tense muscles in her neck straining against the force. The moment her gaze slides over the familiar face, graying from a lack of health, a cry falls past Hawke's lips.

"_Mother!"_

Those lids snap open and startling blue eyes watch her. Her mother's face crumples, her brows drawing down with concern at the condition of her daughter.

"Oh, my darling girl," her mother says in a voice just as broken as Hawke's.

Tears veil her vision, but Hawke feels herself rising from the ground in a strength she didn't know she possessed. She throws an arm back, her elbow cracking into Gascard's face. She gives no thought to what she's doing. The only thing she knows is that she _must_ get her mother out of this place.

She whips around, her chained hands landing around Gascard's throat, her fingers tearing into it as though she could rip it out. Her screams are vicious and the only consolation she takes is that there are no women remaining to hear hers.

The struggle ends so quickly, outmatched and unarmed as she is. Something heavy slams down on the back of her head and Hawke falls instantly, into a lump of filthy material and bloodied flesh.

"Take care of that," Quentin snaps at Gascard. "Ensure it does not happen again. There can be no mistakes in this, Gascard."

She feels the heat of his glare burning through her and she flops over. He approaches, his gloved hand glowing with magic. She doesn't want her mother to see this, her lips move with the silent plea, but he touches her with that hand and all Hawke can do is scream.

-.-

-Anders-

He hasn't heard from Hawke since that afternoon they shared that kiss. Concerned that she may be upset with him, he sets out of his clinic and begins the short travel to Hightown. He _needs_ to explain. He didn't walk away because he doesn't care about her, quite the opposite in fact. It's because he does - too much so - that he's afraid what will happen to her if they were to progress. Justice named her a distraction and really he cannot disagree. Whenever she is around, she's all he thinks about.

But to think that he might have caused her pain in some fashion, well that's unacceptable.

Her estate looms before him, dark and empty it seems from the outside, but with Hawke that means little. More than once, he's entered to find her sitting in a chair asleep, lost to the world moving about her.

Anders moves to knock on the door when his eyes land on the thin slit of darkness pouring out from within. He pushes the door inward with his finger, his heart dropping like a stone when it opens with no resistance. The Hawke he knows is never so cavalier about her safety; not in Kirkwall, not with so many that know her name and want to kill her for it.

He slides through the shadows, his eyes immediately falling on her overtunic and jerkin. She must be home then, she doesn't leave the house without her armor. Or her bow, for that matter, as he sees it hanging on the wall. Even her belt with the few daggers.

"Hawke?" he calls into the darkness. Stark silence. No crackle of a fire, no chatter from her or her mother, nothing. "Bodahn?" It's strange that not even the dwarf is here. Until he remembers hearing her mention something about him and his son making a trip to Ferelden. She would be alone, except for her mother.

He steps into the main foyer, expecting some sort of recognition. A rush of steps on the floor above as she greets him, a head poking out from the study, even a sharp call from the kitchen. But there really is nothing. The house has this feel to it, as though it's abandoned, and that thought does not sit well with him.

He crosses the floor, his boots thumping in the quiet corners. His hand falls upon the smooth banister and he follows it up the stairs to her chambers. The bed is made and her finery laid out. Armor downstairs, finery up here, what is she wearing? Afraid that he's suddenly going to walk into a naked Hawke, he turns and leaves her room.

There's still nothing and it's now that Anders begins to grow concerned. He inspects the upper floor as quickly as he can, trying to ignore that his boots are all that makes any noise here. And when he finds nothing, he takes to the stairs once more, sliding into the study where the first thing he sees is a fallen vase of flowers, strewn across the floor.

Even Justice appears concerned, his voice easing through Anders' thoughts. A cautionary warning is issued and Anders very nearly snorts. He'd figured that out on his own when the door opened.

A note rests among the strewn flowers and he dips down, plucking it up. There's no water stain or damp spot marring the rug. It would appear whenever this vase was knocked over, it had to be at least a couple days ago.

He turns the card over -

_Tonight_.

It's the sudden flare of jealously that startles him. Hawke never mentioned that she had another suitor. Not that it makes a difference, he reminds himself. He walked away; she deserves something better than a monster like him.

It's the stem of the nearest flower he reaches for when Justice suddenly breathes over him, his skin lighting with an azure glow.

_Do not touch it._

Anders pauses, his fingers hovering in the distance between the flower and himself. He questions the spirit. They are simply flowers.

_Blood magic._

Anders breath catches and suddenly, the jealously is gone, replaced with fear. Cursing under his breath, he reaches for a nearby cloth and wraps the rose in it. There's only one person he can think of that might be able to tell him what type of blood magic runs through this flower. He steps back, taking another glance at the study. The vase is spilled chaotically but other than that there's no sign of struggle. He doesn't need any more signs though. Her armor is here, her finery is laid out, her weapons are here, but she is not. And there's blood magic on a rose attacked to a note that reads simply _Tonight_.

His steps lead him out of the estate quickly and he heads immediately for the elf's mansion. Every instinct within him screams that Hawke is in trouble.


	2. Part 2

A/N: It's... a bit dark haha, please don't hurt me. Hope you're enjoyed it... lemme know what you think.

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**Part 2**

"Wake up, _ma fleur_," a grating voice rasps in her ear.

There's no gentle fluttering of lashes as she slowly comes to, no easing back into the world. Her eyes flash open and she darts up, gulping down a lungful of air. The pain is sudden and she bows under it, eyes streaming. _Oh, Maker, it hurts - it hurts_.

"Ssh," that voice again, snaking along her skin in a rush of hot air. Her stomach twists at the scent of his breath. A chilled finger draws across the line of her jaw, sweeping down over her shoulder.

She squeezes her eyes shut again, curling into a ball as far from him as possible. The chains clatter against the floor and with a slight whimper she gathers them into her lap. She wants to ask why he is doing this but she can't find her voice.

Searing agony flares across her wrists and she glances down to find them swollen and bloody. She closes her eyes to the sight and drops her head back against the damp wall. There are other aches, some more commanding than her wrists and she doesn't want to look. Quentin had ordered Gascard to ensure she couldn't fight back and he'd done the job. She remembers vividly the sound of her knees as they were broken. But worse than that was the sound of her mother's cries, watching as Hawke crawled helplessly across the bloodied ground, trying to get away.

Her right arm curls into her chest, the elbow she'd used to strike Gascard had been broken shortly after her knees. And beneath it all is that horrid buzzing. Magic, she realizes. Blood still dots her lips from the last spell that felt as though it'd ruptured everything inside.

"_Non_, open your eyes, _ma fleur_."

Her eyes crack open to find the man hovering over her. His fingers press down onto her knees and a sharp scream echoes off the walls. It isn't until his hand clamps over her mouth that she realizes it came from her. Her vision sways, graying around the edges, and she wilts forward, tears streaming her cheeks.

"Look, _ma fleur_, your mother wishes to speak with you."

Hawke whimpers, wincing when his fingers touch under her chin and jerk her head up. Her mother... the only thing that forces her to keep breathing.

"She has been born anew!" he tells her, pointing before her.

Hawke's heart drops in her stomach like a stone and ignoring the crippled mess of her body, she drops forward and drags her aching body across the floor. Part of her expects to be yanked back, punished for moving of her own free will, but Gascard seems to want her to see this.

The graying woman looks nothing like her mother. She looks more like a doll, hastily put together to be given to someone as a toy. Jagged stitching runs the length of her neck, her skin purpled and swollen. Blood runs the length of her body, darkening the moderate dress her mother had been wearing.

Sobbing, as desperate as she's ever heard, and it comes from her. Floating within that grayed face is a startling pair of blue eyes. She blinks, as though trying to clear away a haze of confusion. When they slide to Hawke, those grim lips twist into a smile.

"My beautiful daughter," she rasps, reaching out to touch her with fingers that never belonged to her. Hawke's shoulders shake, her brow dropping down against the chilled ground. She doesn't want to look. She can't. The woman before her is not her mother - but instead an accumulation of parts stolen from Mharen, Alissa, and Ninette, all to create some monstrosity of Quentin's wife.

Hawke's heart breaks, realizing that it's only a form of magic keeping her mother alive. She feels it buzzing beneath her thoughts.

"What do you think, _ma fleur_? Wondrous, _non_?"

"You're a monster," she weeps in a broken voice. Her tears taste of salt and hatred. And she knows, she _will _murder this man.

He rears back from her, his anger like a backlash of fire, ghosting over her skin.

"A monster?" he chokes. "This is magnificent! A chance to bring back those we love and lose."

"At the cost of other's lives," she wheezes. "What of Ninette, Alissa, or Mharen? Do their loved ones deserve this?"

"Do not _speak _their names!" he shouts, his foot catching against her side. It isn't the pain that assaults her ribs that drags the shattered breath from her lips but her elbow. She flops onto her back, blinking away the haze of pain as she stares at the ceiling above.

Heat ignites next to her and her head lolls in the puddle of blood, smearing her cheek. She watches as that hand ignites and she shakes with the impending pain. His lips curl, drawing back to expose his pearly white teeth.

"You will appreciate me, _ma fleur_, even if I must ensure you do."

This time there's no scream when he descends upon her, that gleaming hand touching her brow.

-.-

It's the absence of pain that wakes her this time. She's come to rely on the humming throb, a way to remind her she is still alive after all.

It takes great strength just to crack her eyes open and when she does, she nearly sags with relief. _Home_. Such warmth bathes her from the flickering fire next to the bed, the air is thick with it. Her head rests lazily in a lap, long fingers running languorously through her hair. The comfort she takes from this is staggering. Her mother used to do such things for both her Bethany as children. _Mother_...

She shifts to find it is not her mother but Anders she rests on. A small smile climbs her lips, the iron band fastened tightly over her heart loosening. He gazes down on her, smiling, absolute peace radiating from him. It seems he's finally removed that coat in her present and has stripped down to simple breeches and shirt. She's never seen him so relaxed.

Her shoulders rise with a deep breath and she settles against him, her hand twining with his other and dragging it over to her lips. She could stay like this forever; the pain gone in the wake of his touch.

His fingers run through her hair and slide beneath her neck, lifting her heavy head. And then he slips out from beneath her. His steady steps take him to the door where, when a soft protest slips from her lips, he turns and glances back on her.

"Hawke, I won't be coming for you," his words are deep and slow as though he's ensuring she understands.

She tries to scramble up from the bed but she suddenly finds it much too difficult to lift her head and her limbs will not assist her. Her gaze drops to watch as her arm snaps into her chest like a wing, mangled and broken, her fingers forming claws out of her swollen digits, her wrists slick with blood. A tortured cry falls from her throat and she falls back against the bed, writhing in agony. A sharp crack sounds and she screams, her knees shattering beneath the force.

"Anders," she chokes, her face soaked with tears.

His slow steps lead him back over to the bed and he stoops over her nightstand, his fingers cupping a rose bloom. He inhales the perfumed fragrance and plucks the closest.

"Anders, _please_," she begs, reaching out with her other arm toward him.

His face twists gruesomely, his lips pressing into a grim line. "Why you ever thought I could love someone as pathetic as you, I'll never understand."

The pain settles into her bones but it's nothing compared to the shattered mess of her heart. He turns to leave again and she moves as best she can, her arm swinging out. The arrangement of flowers next to the bed spills to the ground and they both fall silent as they turn to gaze down on the mess. Shards of glass have sprinkled across the floor, refracting what light streams in from the window.

"Useless," he jeers. "Broken. Why would I want someone so hopeless?"

She sobs his name brokenly, the thought that he might leave her here in this condition more than she can bear.

With a grimace, he stalks back over to her, plucking at the rose with every step. She meets his eyes once more, pleading silently for him to help. _Pathetic_... _Hopeless_.

One by one the petals drift down onto her chest, carried by an unseen breeze, and she flinches away from them. She doesn't want to smell the fresh scent, or gaze upon the red petals. The stem is the final piece to fall upon her chest, like a flower upon a grave.

"Goodbye, Hawke," he growls before stalking across the room.

_Just a dream, it's just a dream_... She clenches her eyes shut, pleading to wake. She waits, and waits. But the startling reality never sweeps down on her. Footsteps, loud and even, retreating. Her lids open to the sight of Anders walking away, his back the last thing she sees.

-.-

The dream shatters around her, though she remains in the same position she last fell, her mother's arms holding her. They speak in hushed tones to one another whenever they can. When her mother tells her she must find a way out, Hawke weeps. The pain has returned and she can't move. Her legs have seized into a band of steel, unwilling to comply to her commands. She can hardly feel her hands anymore, the blood crusted and stuck to the manacles. And her arm lies lifeless across her chest.

But she listens to her mother's soothing words. They both know there is no way out for either of them. Least of all Hawke. Gascard seems to have taken a personal form of desire for her.

She stops dreaming of rescues, she stops sleeping as a whole, stops speaking after a fashion. She stops caring the lap she's stretched on is not her mother's. She simply listens. And when Gascard returns, she merely watches him. Broken, pathetic, useless...

-.-

He's moved her, separated her from her mother. The cell is familiar, and she crumples into the corner she'd darkened the last time here. He crouches before her, his finger drawing across her jaw once more. Her eyes are blank as she watches him, lifeless. When he leans against her legs, she moans, but the pain is not so bad anymore.

The screams don't come from her. She has no reason to scream. They come from her mother and Hawke squeezes her eyes shut to the sound. She sucks in a sharp breath, her jaw clenched no matter how much it hurts to do so.

"Ssh," he murmurs. "It will be over soon."

She doesn't want to know what will be over, but she has her thoughts. Quentin spoke of his wife and all he expects of her mother. She whimpers when his hand curves around her neck. A thread of magic ribbons through her stomach and whispered words breath through her mind.

_Open your eyes_.

There's no question in her mind. Her eyes flash open and she stares up at the man above her. He extends a glowing hand down to her.

_Take my hand_.

Her chains clatter against the floor and she lifts her broken arm without pause, sliding her fingers through his. Her stomach clenches with revulsion, but she obeys, the magic threading within her ensuring she does so.

_You are mine now_.

She nods. There's no doubt in her mind. It's like the haze has lifted and in the place of confusion settles a clarity she's never felt before. Gone are the screams that frightened her, gone is that voice in her head, taunting her with rescue.

"Shall we make you more comfortable?" he stoops over, his words ghosting over her lips. _His. She is his_. She arches toward him, begging silently for him to claim that last inch between them.

She has pleased him and he shows it with a gentle hand grazing her back, guiding her into him. His fingers fall to the hem of her shirt, gliding over her clammy skin. Her eyes flutter shut and she sighs into him. She longs for his touch, all but begging for him. He grins, his fingers rising to brush away the encrusted hairs curling over her swollen cheek.

"_Hawke_!"

He jerks at the sound but she doesn't. Her chained wrists lift until she can touch his face, her fingers curving over his jaw.

"_Non, ma fleur_. We have guests." A soft protest falls from her lips and he turns with a twisted smile. "Ssh. We will remove them and return to this. You will fight, yes?"

There's a strange thought at the back of her head. No, no she can't fight. Those words fall incoherently. Displeased, his fingers clench around her jaw and squeeze until she cries out. The magic swells and she sags beneath the weight of it. Strings hold her up that stretch from him. It's his strength lent to her. She feels the ties and knows she must _not _disobey.

_You will fight_.

She nods once more. Yes, there is no question. She will fight. Something cold slides into her hand and her eyes drop to the chilled steel.

"_Hawke_!" Voices.

Her head rises. Fight.

He leads her from the cell, pulling sharply on her chains when she doesn't move fast enough. Twice, she stumbles, her legs for some reason, refusing to hold her up. He grows impatient, she feels it like whitewaters rising in her throat. He pulls harder and sharper until she spills into the room, crashing to her knees. For a moment, she's blinded by pain and a stark fear chokes her.

_Fight. Kill them_.

The confusion clears and she turns her eyes up. A group of people have swarmed the room. They battle already, fighting off skeletons and demons summoned by Quentin who perches near a woman dressed in a wedding gown.

Hawke rises and stumbles into the battle herself. She brings her dagger down on the nearest, watching as their eyes widen. The woman vanishes in a cloud of smoke, appearing across the room seconds later.

They all fall to a stop, so many eyes watching her. _Fight. Kill them. His_.

"Anders!" the one that vanished shrieks, pointing over at her. Hawke tenses and turns, noting a figure across the room. Someone straightens from the pile of body parts and turns. A furious scowl darkens his face the moment his eyes fall on her and he erupts in a sudden luminous glow of blue.

Hawke turns away from the man, across the room as he is, and staggers forward, her arm slicing through the air as she suddenly attacks the elf. His eyes are so wide as he jumps back, away from the blade that narrowly skins his jacket.

"Hawke! Stop!" he orders, his sword deflecting her attacks. Like a dance, they twist in a weave of complicated steps, his brow beading with sweat as he struggles against her.

_His. Kill them_.

He holds back, his sword always blocking, never attacking, no matter how close she lands her steel edge. Her brows draw together sharply. A whisper of a thought, one that belongs to her. She knows this face.

"Do something!" the dwarf bellows, his arrow flying over her shoulder. She tightens her grip on the hilt of the blade and strikes quickly, like a snake, the silver-tipped blade slides through his breast plate and into his shoulder.

The elf lets out a startled shout and drops away from her, stumbling back. Her eyes fall to the blade, tinged red. Sickness rises and she suddenly feels ill at the sight of it.

Azure hands fall on her shoulders and spin her around. She responds without pause, dagger driven up toward his sternum. A shadow appears between them, a metal shield crashing down onto her wrist. Her fingers spasm, pain lancing through her arm. The dagger spins away from her grip.

_Pain_. Hawke's eyes stream and she crumples.

"Aveline!" the glowing man shouts, shoving the armored woman back and away from her.

_Get up_! A voice, stark and deafening in her head. Hawke shakes away the fog and lunges back to her feet. For him.

"Blood magic," a soft voice shouts to them over the clash of weapons as another spell darts over their head. "She's under his thrall!"

"Enough of this," a darker voice spills from the man's lips. He releases her shoulders and turns, his silvery staff glowing as he stalks forward.

Hawke scrambles to her feet best she can, chasing after him. The glowing man's magic is strong and he cleaves a way through the skeletons, heading straight for _him_.

She whimpers and rushes at him, clumsily tackling him at his knees. Somehow they twist on the way down and he lands on her, his elbow emptying her lungs of air.

The glow flickers before vanishing entirely and shocked amber eyes peer down at her as she chokes on her breath.

"Hawke!" he pleads. "Fight!"

Yes, _fight_. Her hands twist into his jacket and she manages to flip him off her. Slowly she rises and places herself between these intruders and _him_.

The one with the feathered jacket rises, his fingers still tight around his staff. His face crumples at the sight of her. The war rages around them, the dead keeping the others busy.

"Hawke," he whispers. "Fight the compulsion. Fight his control."

She blinks, her fingers searching for a weapon.

"Fight, love," he whispers.

The ribbon frays and she blinks again, her body righting itself. A shout from behind, ordering her to kill the mage. She glances back to find the fiery haired woman has made her way past the skeletons and attacks them both. With every slice of her sword, one of the ties strung between them breaks. His voice grows dimmer in her head and she staggers back. Gascard bellows another order as he lobs a spell at the woman.

Hands curve over her shoulders and turn her around. This time she holds no dagger. And she stares up into this face, suddenly knowing him. Her eyes follow the wide arc of his jaw to those lips that she somehow remembers tasting. But it isn't only that she remembers. In her mind's eye, she sees them twist, as he names her pathetic and useless.

"Fight," he whispers so softy, his voice brushing away that unwanted memory. His fingers are so gentle as they climb up the nape of her neck, easing her head back. It's the softest kiss ever, a simple brush of lips. Her stomach flips and the ribbon bleeds away, releasing her from all ties. The voices end, the desire to fight waning into a puddle at her feet. But with the magic's absence, the pain crashes back down onto her and she falls from his touch, crumpling at his feet and sobbing.

"Hawke!" he gasps, about to reach for her when someone shouts over the battle at them.

"Blondie!" a sharp voice. "This isn't the time for a make out session. We could use you over here!"

She doesn't look up. The biting agony settles into her bones, dimming her vision. She lies where she fell, staring up at the ceiling. Battle erupts around her and she hear cries and blades brought down on one another. The pain is too much and she slowly drags her legs into her chest, the ground beneath her absorbing her tears. She just wants it to end.

It feels like an eternity has passed before she's met with silence once more. Her ears ring with it. She can't move, not even a little bit. And worse, she doesn't want to. Here seems a good place to simply fade away. Let the earth have her, as it has Mharen, Alissa, and Ninette. At least then, she'll know peace. As fickle as it may seem.

Cold fingers smooth the tears away from her cheeks. She doesn't turn to them, her heart crushed into a mulch as it is.

"Marian," her mother's voice floats down on her.

Hawke's head lolls at the sound of her voice. She focuses only on the eyes, blinking slowly. The magic that holds her is fading, Hawke can feel it. She pushes her fingers into the dirt covered ground, white-knuckled with the strain of pushing herself up. Her wrists give out beneath her, but a second pair of hands are suddenly catching her and helping her up. She knows his touch and she sinks into him.

"Oh, my baby girl. So strong."

"Mother," she sibilates, reaching for her.

"I love you. Never forget that."

Hawke's cracked lips part, but her words fall silent the moment her mother slips to the ground, the magic holding her to this world, gone, lost the moment Quentin died. There's no tears left for her to cry. She simply rests against Anders' chest, staring at the lump that once could be called her mother, her skin already graying. She was gone days ago, when the spell was completed. All that remains is the shell of the woman that loved and cared for her.

"Come," a soft voice murmurs against her cheek. "Let's get you out of here."

Hawke slides out of Anders grasp, her fingers gripping into the wall as she pulls herself to her feet. She won't hold, she knows that but she _has _to see.

Gascard lies in a puddle of his own making; the soils around him red. Those eyes stare blankly up at the ceiling. She tries to take a step, only saved from falling when strong arms wrap around her waist once more.

"It's done," Anders promises her. "Let me take you home."

Her gaze lands on that face and she sucks in a full breath for the first time since awaking here. There, beneath the surface is the desire to go to him, to touch him, to have him. _She is his_.

She forces herself to swallow past the bitter dehydrated lump swollen in her throat. Her lips move and an impassioned whisper falls out. "I am not his. I am not his. I am not-"

Anders' fingers curl over her cheek and he turns her face into his chest. "No, you're not."

Magic spreads thickly over her skin, the air clotting with it. Her heart leaps into her throat and she suddenly wrenches out of Anders' grasp, crumpling to the ground before anyone can catch her. Finally, the tears come and she scrambles away from him, her fingers digging into the ground as she drags herself. "No, no, no..." she sobs. _No more magic, no more, no more_.

"Hawke," Anders calls to her, tossing a glance back over his shoulder.

She breaks down into a ball of tears, her head shaking over and over.

"Fool mage!" the elf snarls. "She's been held by blood magic and tortured with it and you would cast more upon her?"

A glowing body steps between them. Hawke wants to go to him, he understands.

"I-I was just trying to ease the pain, make her sleep... until I can heal her properly."

"Here," a gentle voice rises, a pale face peeking around the elf at her.

"What is it?" Fenris demands.

"A waterskin. That's all."

The elf reaches for it but Anders beats him to it, glaring openly at Fenris.

When he steps around him, Hawke turns her face away from him. "No, please," she whispers.

His hand falls into her hair, brushing it gently back from her face. "Just water, love. I won't do anything you don't want me to."

He lifts the waterskin to her lips and slowly, the liquid streams into her mouth. It's like nothing she's ever tasted and she draws greedily from it, her shaking fingers rising to clutch at his hands. A great cough consumes her and he lowers the waterskin, his hands curving over her shoulder to hold her steady.

"Isabela, _please_, get these bloody chains off her."

The woman steps up to them, extracting a pouch from her belt. But Hawke is lost to it the moment Anders offers the water once more.

"Slowly," he whispers.

By the time she finishes the waterskin, the chains around her feet have clattered to the ground. Her eyes drop and she finds her ankles in much the same shape as her wrists. The group falls silent until the wrist manacles fall away. She whimpers, crying out when they tear the scabs, rendering them anew. Anders is vibrating against her, his fingers hovering above the jagged tears in her skin. Fresh blood wells to the surface, trickling down the inside of her arm. This is how it all started, with blood as red as the rose she held in her hand.

"I wish I could kill him again," he snarls, his fingers pressing into his eyes as though the sight offends him.

"Anders," Hawke speaks his name for the first time. An uneasy hush falls over the group. "I'd like to leave this place now."

Her voice is so haggard, she's surprised she can even find it. Nodding, his gentle arms slide beneath her and he lifts without breaking stride.

"Try and sleep," he tells her. "I'll take you home."

_Home._

-.-


End file.
